High up in an old house, full of poor people, lived Lizzie, with her
mother and Baby Billy. The street was a narrow, noisy place, where
carts rumbled and dirty children played; where the sun seldom shone, the
fresh wind seldom blew, and the white snow of winter was turned at once
to black mud. One bare room was Lizzie's home, and out of it she seldom
went, for she was a prisoner. We all pity the poor princesses who were
shut up in towers by bad fairies, the men and women in jails, and the
little birds in cages, but Lizzie was a sadder prisoner than any of
these.
The prince always comes to the captive princess, the jail doors open in
time, and the birds find some kind hand to set them free; but there
seemed no hope of escape for this poor child. Only nine years old, and
condemned to life-long helplessness, loneliness, and darkness,--for she
was blind.
She could dimly remember the blue sky, green earth, and beautiful sun;
for the light went out when she was six, and the cruel fever left her a
pale little shadow to haunt that room ever since. The father was dead;
the mother worked hard for daily bread; they had no friends; and the
good fairies seemed to have forgotten them. Still, like the larks one
sees in Brittany, whose eyes cruel boys put out that they may sing the
sweeter, Lizzie made music in her cage, singing to baby; and when he
slept, she sat by the window listening to the noise below for company,
crooning to herself till she too fell asleep and forgot the long, long
days that had no play, no school, no change for her such as other
children know.
Every morning mother gave them their porridge, locked the door, and went
away to work, leaving something for the children's dinner, and Lizzie to
take care of herself and Billy till night. There was no other way, for
both were too helpless to be trusted elsewhere, and there was no one to
look after them. But Lizzie knew her way about the room, and could find
the bed, the window, and the table where the bread and milk stood.
There was seldom any fire in the stove, and the window was barred, so
the little prisoners were safe; and day after day they lived together a
sad, solitary, unchildlike life that makes one's heart ache to think of.
Lizzie watched over Billy like a faithful little mother, and Billy did
his best to bear his trials and comfort sister like a man. He was not a
rosy, rollicking fellow, like most year-old boys, but pale and thin and
quiet, with a pathetic look in his big blue eyes, as if he said,
"Something is wrong; will some one kindly put it right for us?" But he
seldom complained unless in pain, and would lie for hours on the old
bed, watching the flies, which were his only other playmates, stretching
out his little hands to the few rays of sunshine that crept in now and
then, as if longing for them, like a flower in a cellar. When Lizzie
sang, he hummed softly; and when he was hungry, cold, or tired, he
called, "Lib! Lib!" meaning "Lizzie," and nestled up to her, forgetting
all his baby woes in her tender arms.
Seeing her so fond and faithful, the poor neighbors loved as well as
pitied her, and did what they could for the afflicted child. The busy
women would pause at the locked door to ask if all was right; the dirty
children brought her dandelions from the park; and the rough workmen of
the factory opposite, with a kind word, would toss an apple or a cake
through the open window. They had learned to look for the little
wistful face behind the bars, and loved to listen to the childish voice
which caught and imitated the songs they sang and whistled, like a sweet
echo. They called her "the blind lark;" and though she never knew it,
many were the better for the pity they gave her.
Baby slept a great deal, for life offered him few pleasures, and like a
small philosopher, he wisely tried to forget the troubles which he could
not cure; so Lizzie had nothing to do but sing, and try to imagine how
the world looked. She had no one to tell her, and the few memories grew
dimmer and dimmer each year. She did not know how to work or to play,
never having been taught, and mother was too tired at night to do
anything but get supper and go to bed.
"The child will be an idiot soon, if she does not die," people said; and
it seemed as if this would be the fate of the poor little girl, since no
one came to save her during those three weary years. She often said,
"I'm of _some_ use. I take care of Billy, and I could n't live without
him."
But even this duty and delight was taken from her, for that cold spring
nipped the poor little flower, and one day Billy shut his blue eyes with
a patient sigh and left her all alone.
Then Lizzie's heart seemed broken; and people thought she would soon
follow him, now that her one care and comfort was gone. All day she lay
with her cheek on Billy's pillow, holding the battered tin cup and a
little worn-out shoe, and it was pitiful to hear her sing the old
lullabies as if baby still could hear them.
"It will be a mercy if the poor thing does n't live; blind folks are no
use and a sight of trouble," said one woman to another as they gossiped
in the hall after calling on the child during her mother's absence, for
the door was left unlocked since she was ill.
"Yes, Mrs. Davis would get on nicely if she had n't such a burden.
Thank Heaven, my children are n't blind," answered the other, hugging
her baby closer as she went away.
Lizzie heard them, and hoped with all her sad little soul that death
would set her free, since she was of no use in the world. To go and be
with Billy was all her desire now, and she was on her way to him,
growing daily weaker and more content to be dreaming of dear baby well
and happy, waiting for her somewhere in a lovely place called heaven.
The summer vacation came; and hundreds of eager children were hurrying
away to the mountains and seashore for two months of healthful pleasure.
Even the dirty children in the lane felt the approach of berry-time, and
rejoiced in their freedom from cold as they swarmed like flies about the
corner grocery where over-ripe fruit was thrown out for them to scramble
over.
Lizzie heard about good times when some of these young neighbors were
chosen to go on the poor children's picnics, and came back with big
sandwiches buttoned up in their jackets, pickles, peanuts, and buns in
their pockets, hands full of faded flowers, and hearts brimming over
with childish delight at a day in the woods. She listened with a faint
smile, enjoyed the "woodsy" smell of the green things, and wondered if
they had nice picnics in heaven, being sorry that Billy had missed them
here. But she did not seem to care much, or hope for any pleasure for
herself except to see baby again.
I think there were few sadder sights in that great city than this
innocent prisoner waiting so patiently to be set free. Would it be by
the gentle angel of death, or one of the human angels who keep these
little sparrows from falling to the ground?
One hot August day, when not a breath came into the room, and the dust
and noise and evil smells were almost unendurable, poor Lizzie lay on
her bed singing feebly to herself about "the beautiful blue sea." She
was trying to get to sleep that she might dream of a cool place, and her
voice was growing fainter and fainter, when suddenly it seemed as if the
dream had come, for a sweet odor was near, something damp and fresh
touched her feverish cheek, and a kind voice said in her ear,--
"Here is the little bird I 've been following. Will you have some
flowers, dear?"
"Is it heaven? Where's Billy?" murmured Lizzie, groping about her, half
awake.
"Not yet. I'm not Billy, but a friend who carries flowers to little
children who cannot go and get them. Don't be afraid, but let me sit
and tell you about it," answered the voice, as a gentle hand took hers.
"I thought maybe I 'd died, and I was glad, for I do want to see Billy
so much. He's baby, you know." And the clinging hands held the kind
one fast till it filled them with a great bunch of roses that seemed to
bring all summer into the close, hot room with their sweetness.
"Oh, how nice! how nice! I never had such a lot. They 're bigger 'n'
better 'n dandelions, are n't they? What a good lady you must be to go
'round giving folks posies like these!" cried Lizzie, trying to realize
the astonishing fact.
Then, while the new friend fanned her, she lay luxuriating in her roses,
and listening to the sweet story of the Flower Mission which, like many
other pleasant things, she knew nothing of in her prison. Presently she
told her own little tale, never guessing how pathetic it was, till
lifting her hand to touch the new face, she found it wet with tears.
"Are you sorry for me?" she asked. "Folks are very kind, but I 'm a
burden, you know, and I 'd better die and go to Billy; I was some use to
him, but I never can be to any one else. I heard 'em say so, and poor
mother would do better if I was n't here."
"My child, I know a little blind girl who is no burden but a great help
to her mother, and a happy, useful creature, as you might be if you were
taught and helped as she was," went on the voice, sounding more than
ever like a good fairy's as it told fresh wonders till Lizzie was sure
it _must_ be all a dream.
"Who taught her? Could I do it? Where's the place?" she asked, sitting
erect in her eagerness, like a bird that hears a hand at the door of its
cage.
Then, with the comfortable arm around her, the roses stirring with the
flutter of her heart, and the sightless eyes looking up as if they could
see the face of the deliverer, Lizzie heard the wonderful story of the
House Beautiful standing white and spacious on the hill, with the blue
sea before it, the fresh wind always blowing, the green gardens and
parks all about, and inside, music, happy voices, shining faces, busy
hands, and year after year the patient teaching by those who dedicate
themselves to this noble and tender task.
"It must be better'n heaven!" cried Lizzie, as she heard of work and
play, health and happiness, love and companionship, usefulness and
independence,--all the dear rights and simple joys young creatures
hunger for, and perish, soul and body, without.
It was too much for her little mind to grasp at once, and she lay as if
in a blissful dream long after the kind visitor had gone, promising to
come again and to find some way for Lizzie to enter into that lovely
place where darkness is changed to light.
That visit was like magic medicine, and the child grew better at once,
for hope was born in her heart. The heavy gloom seemed to lift;
discomforts were easier to bear; and solitude was peopled now with
troops of happy children living in that wonderful place where blindness
was not a burden. She told it all to her mother, and the poor woman
tried to believe it, but said sadly,--
"Don't set your heart on it, child. It's easy to promise and to forget.
Rich folks don't trouble themselves about poor folks if they can help
it."
But Lizzie's faith never wavered, though the roses faded as day after
day went by and no one came. The mere thought that it was possible to
teach blind people to work and study and play seemed to give her
strength and courage. She got up and sat at the window again, singing
to herself as she watched and waited, with the dead flowers carefully
arranged in Billy's mug, and a hopeful smile on the little white face
behind the bars.
Every one was glad she was better, and nodded to one another as they
heard the soft crooning, like a dove's coo, in the pauses of the harsher
noises that filled the street. The workmen tossed her sweeties and
whistled their gayest airs; the children brought their dilapidated toys
to amuse her; and one woman came every day to put her baby in Lizzie's
lap, it was such a pleasure to her to feel the soft little body in the
loving arms that longed for Billy.
Poor mother went to her work in better spirits, and the long hot days
were less oppressive as she thought, while she scrubbed, of Lizzie up
again; for she loved her helpless burden, heavy though she found it.
When Saturday came around, it rained hard, and no one expected "the
flower lady." Even Lizzie said with a patient sigh and a hopeful
smile,--
"I don't believe she 'll come; but maybe it will clear up, and then I
guess she will."
It did not clear up, but the flower lady came; and as the child sat
listening to the welcome sound of her steps, her quick ear caught the
tread of two pairs of feet, the whisper of two voices, and presently two
persons came in to fill her hands with midsummer flowers.
"This is Minna, the little girl I told you of. She wanted to see you
very much, so we paddled away like a pair of ducks, and here we are,"
said Miss Grace, gayly; and as she spoke, Lizzie felt soft fingers glide
over her face, and a pair of childish lips find and kiss her own. The
groping touch, the hearty kiss, made the blind children friends at once,
and dropping her flowers, Lizzie hugged the new-comer, trembling with
excitement and delight. Then they talked; and how the tongues went as
one asked questions and the other answered them, while Miss Grace sat by
enjoying the happiness of those who do _not_ forget the poor, but seek
them out to save and bless.
Minna had been for a year a pupil in the happy school, where she was
taught to see with her hands, as one might say; and the tales she told
of the good times there made Lizzie cry eagerly,--
"Can I go? Oh, _can_ go?"
"Alas, no, not yet," answered Miss Grace, sadly. "I find that children
under ten cannot be taken, and there is no place for the little ones
unless kind people care for them."
Lizzie gave a wail, and hid her face in the pillow, feeling as if she
could not bear the dreadful disappointment.
Minna comforted her, and Miss Grace went on to say that generous people
were trying to get another school for the small children; that all the
blind children were working hard to help on the plan; that money was
coming in; and soon they hoped to have a pleasant place for every child
who needed help.
Lizzie's tears stopped falling as she listened, for hope was not quite
gone.
"I 'll not be ten till next June, and I don't see how I _can_ wait 'most
a year. Will the little school be ready 'fore then?" she asked.
"I fear not, dear, but I will see that the long waiting is made as easy
as possible, and perhaps you can help us in some way," answered Miss
Grace, anxious to atone for her mistake in speaking about the school
before she had made sure that Lizzie could go.
"Oh, I 'd love to help; only I can't do anything," sighed the child.
"You can sing, and that is a lovely way to help. I heard of 'the blind
lark,' as they call you, and when I came to find her, your little voice
led me straight to the door of the cage. That door I mean to open, and
let you hop out into the sunshine; then, when you are well and strong, I
hope you will help us get the home for other little children who else
must wait years before _they_ find the light. Will you?"
As Miss Grace spoke, it was beautiful to see the clouds lift from
Lizzie's wondering face, till it shone with the sweetest beauty any face
can wear,--the happiness of helping others. She forgot her own
disappointment in the new hope that came, and held on to the bedpost as
if the splendid plan were almost too much for her.
"Could I help that way?" she cried. "Would anybody care to hear me sing?
Oh, how I 'd love to do anything for the poor little ones who will have
to wait."
"You shall. I 'm sure the hardest heart would be touched by your
singing, if you look as you do now. We need something new for our fair
and concert, and by that time you will be ready," said Miss Grace,
almost afraid she had said too much; for the child looked so frail, it
seemed as if even joy would hurt her.
Fortunately her mother came in just then; and while the lady talked to
her, Minna's childish chatter soothed Lizzie so well that when they left
she stood at the window smiling down at them and singing like the
happiest bobolink that ever tilted on a willow branch in spring-time.
All the promises were kept, and soon a new life began for Lizzie. A
better room and well-paid work were found for Mrs. Davis. Minna came as
often as she could to cheer up her little friend, and best of all, Miss
Grace taught her to sing, that by and by the little voice might plead
with its pathetic music for others less blest than she. So the winter
months went by, and Lizzie grew like mayflowers underneath the snow,
getting ready to look up, sweet and rosy, when spring set her free and
called her to be glad. She counted the months and weeks, and when the
time dwindled to days, she could hardly sleep or eat for thinking of the
happy hour when she could go to be a pupil in the school where miracles
were worked.
Her birthday was in June, and thanks to Miss Grace, her coming was
celebrated by one of the pretty festivals of the school, called Daisy
Day. Lizzie knew nothing of this surprise, and when her friends led her
up the long flight of steps she looked like a happy little soul climbing
to the gates of heaven.
Mr. Constantine, the ruler of this small kingdom, was a man whose
fatherly heart had room for every suffering child in the world, and it
rejoiced over every one who came, though the great house was
overflowing, and many waited as Lizzie had done.
He welcomed her so kindly that the strange place seemed like home at
once, and Minna led her away to the little mates who proudly showed her
their small possessions and filled her hands with the treasures children
love, while pouring into her ears delightful tales of the study, work,
and play that made their lives so happy.
Lizzie was bewildered, and held fast to Minna, whose motherly care of
her was sweet to see. Kind teachers explained rules and duties with the
patience that soothes fear and wins love; and soon Lizzie began to feel
that she was a "truly pupil" in this wonderful school where the blind
could read, sew, study, sing, run, and play. Boys raced along the
galleries and up and down the stairs as boldly as if all had eyes; girls
swept and dusted like tidy housewives; little fellows hammered and sawed
in the workshop and never hurt themselves; small girls sewed on pretty
work as busy as bees; and in the schoolroom lessons went on as if both
teachers and pupils were blessed with eyes.
Lizzie could not understand it, and was content to sit and listen
wherever she was placed, while her little fingers fumbled at the new
objects near her, and her hungry mind opened like a flower to the sun.
She had no tasks that day, and in the afternoon was led away with a
flock of children, all chattering like magpies, on the grand expedition.
Every year, when the fields were white with daisies, these poor little
souls were let loose among them to enjoy the holy day of this child's
flower. Ah, but was n't it a pretty sight to see the meeting between
them, when the meadows were reached, and the children scattered far and
wide with cries of joy as they ran and rolled in the white sea, or
filled their eager hands, or softly felt for the dear daisies and kissed
them like old friends? The flowers seemed to enjoy it too, as they
danced and nodded, while the wind rippled the long grass like waves of a
green sea, and the sun smiled as if he said,--
"Here's the sort of thing I like to see. Why don't I find more of it?"
Lizzie's face looked like a daisy, it was so full of light as she stood
looking up, with the wide brim of her new hat like the white petals all
round it. She did not run nor shout, but went slowly wading through the
grass, feeling the flowers touch her hands, yet picking none, for it was
happiness enough to know that they were there. Presently she sat down
and let them tap her cheeks and rustle about her ears as though telling
secrets that made her smile. Then, as if weary with so much happiness,
she lay back and let the daisies hide her with their pretty coverlet.
Miss Grace was watching over her, but left her alone, and by and by,
like a lark from its nest in the grass, the blind girl sent up her
little voice, singing so sweetly that the children gathered around to
hear, while they made chains and tied up their nosegays.
This was Lizzie's first concert, and no little prima donna was ever more
pelted with flowers than she; for when she had sung all her songs, new
and old, a daisy crown was put upon her head, a tall flower for a
sceptre in her hand, and all the boys and girls danced around her as if
she had been Queen of the May.
A little feast came out of the baskets, that they might be empty for the
harvest to be carried home, and while they ate, stories were told and
shouts of laughter filled the air, for all were as merry as if there was
no darkness, pain, or want in the world. Then they had games; and
Lizzie was taught to play,--for till now she never knew what a good romp
meant. Her cheeks grew rosy, her sad little face waked up, she ran and
tumbled with the rest, and actually screamed, to Minna's great delight.
Two or three of the children could see a little, and these were very
helpful in taking care of the little ones. Miss Grace found them
playing some game with Lizzie, and observed that all but she were
blindfolded. When she asked why, one whispered, "We thought we should
play fairer if we were all alike." And another added, "It seems somehow
as if we were proud if we see better than the rest."
Lizzie was much touched by this sweet spirit, and a little later showed
that she had already learned one lesson in the school, when she gathered
about her some who had never seen, and told them what she could remember
of green fields and daisy-balls before the light went out forever.
"Surely my little lark was worth saving, if only for this one happy
day," thought Miss Grace, as she watched the awakened look in the blind
faces, all leaning toward the speaker, whose childish story pleased them
well.
In all her long and useful life, Lizzie never forgot that Daisy Day, for
it seemed as if she were born anew, and like a butterfly had left the
dark chrysalis all behind her then. It was the first page of the
beautiful book just opening before the eyes of her little mind,--a
lovely page, illustrated with flowers, kind faces, sunshine, and happy
hopes. The new life was so full, so free, she soon fell into her place
and enjoyed it all. People worked there so heartily, so helpfully, it
was no wonder things went as if by magic, and the poor little creatures
who came in so afflicted went out in some years independent people,
ready to help themselves and often to benefit others.
There is no need to tell all Lizzie learned and enjoyed that summer, nor
how proud her mother was when she heard her read in the curious books,
making eyes of the little fingers that felt their way along so fast;
when she saw the neat stitches she set, the pretty clay things she
modelled, the tidy way she washed dishes, swept, and dusted, and helped
keep her room in order. But the poor woman's heart was too full for
words when she heard the child sing,--not as before, in the dreary room,
sad, soft lullabies to Billy, but beautiful, gay songs, with flutes and
violins to lift and carry the little voice along on waves of music.
Lizzie really had a great gift; but she was never happier than when they
all sang together, or when she sat quietly listening to the band as they
practised for the autumn concert. She was to have a part in it; and the
thought that she could help to earn money for the Kindergarten made the
shy child bold and glad to do her part. Many people knew her now, for
she was very pretty, with the healthful roses in her cheeks, curly
yellow hair, and great blue eyes that seemed to see. Her mates and
teachers were proud of her, for though she was not as quick as some of
the pupils, her sweet temper, grateful heart, and friendly little ways
made her very dear to all, aside from the musical talent she possessed.
Every one was busy over the fair and the concert; and fingers flew,
tongues chattered, feet trotted, and hearts beat fast with hope and fear
as the time drew near, for all were eager to secure a home for the poor
children still waiting in darkness. It was a charity which appealed to
all hearts when it was known; but in this busy world of ours, people
have so many cares of their own that they are apt to forget the wants of
others unless something brings these needs very clearly before their
eyes. Much money was needed, and many ways had been tried to add to the
growing fund, that all might be well done.
"We wish to interest children in this charity for children, so that they
may gladly give a part of their abundance to these poor little souls who
have nothing. I think Lizzie will sing some of the pennies out of their
pockets, which would otherwise go for bonbons. Let us try; so make her
neat and pretty, and we 'll have a special song for her."
Mr. Constantine said this; and Miss Grace carried out his wish so well
that when the time came, the little prima donna did her part better even
than they had hoped.
The sun shone splendidly on the opening day of the fair, and cars and
carriages came rolling out from the city, full of friendly people with
plump purses and the sympathetic interest we all take in such things
when we take time to see, admire, and reproach ourselves that we do so
little for them.
There were many children; and when they had bought the pretty handiwork
of the blind needle-women, eaten cake and ices, wondered at the strange
maps and books, twirled the big globe in the hall, and tried to
understand how so many blind people could be so busy and so happy, they
all were seated at last to hear the music, full of expectation, for "the
pretty little girl was going to sing."
It was a charming concert, and every one enjoyed it, though many eyes
grew dim as they wandered from the tall youths blowing the horns so
sweetly to the small ones chirping away like so many sparrows, for the
blind faces made the sight pathetic, and such music touched the hearts
as no other music can.
"Now she's coming!" whispered the eager children, as a little girl
climbed up the steps and stood before them, waiting to begin.
A slender little creature in a blue gown, with sunshine falling on her
pretty hair, a pleading look in the soft eyes that had no sign of
blindness but their steadfastness, and a smile on the lips that trembled
at first, for Lizzie's heart beat fast, and only the thought, "I 'm
helping the poor little ones," gave her courage for her task.
But when the flutes and violins began to play like a whispering wind,
she forgot the crowd before her, and lifting up her face, sang in clear
sweet tones.